Toy Soldiers
by ArtisticAbandon
Summary: Elseworld to Bats' 615. DG's POV Dick enters the Batcave to speak to Bruce, and, you know, have a little heart.to.bat thing about life, love, and the Joker. This is how I thought it should happen.


Disclaimer: I haven't read #615 yet, only #614 and #616. This is based entirely on the phrase "Nightwing enters the fray!" from the little teaser at the end of #614. So any relevance, relation, or similiarity to the actual issue of #615 is purely coincidental. This is just my view on how a scene in it might happen. As such, I make no claim to own the characters or have any part (unfortunately :D) in planning their 'official' futures. I'm just a fan, what do I know?

Rating: PG-13, but only for one bad word, repeated twice or so.

Spoiler's: Last Laught and #614, if you're really counting. I hope he doesn't mind, but there's also a small reference in here to JW's A Matter Of Vengence, which I still think is one incredible story. Oh, and a few lines (like the 'it's so human' bit near the end) come from Chris Dee's tremendous CatTales series in the Batman fandom at FF.N.

Sum: One-shot. Written after reading Batman #614. Bruce and Dick have a little heart-to-bat, about anger, love, and The Joker. It'll probably be an Elseworld as soon as I manage to find where on earth #615 has eloped to.

A/N:This is the first time that I've sat down and actually let myself write from Dick's viewpoint. Its even my first attempt at writing a scene in which Bruce plays a prominent role, as I find it hard to write obsessive and emotionally-retarded people (no offense intended). It's sad, I know, but at least know you'll know why if either of them act OOC. So please, Be Gentle.

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* * *

  


**TOY SOLDIERS**  
by SahRae Hyjo

  
  
_ I've got more than a mountain, more than a notion  
Build up the night-time, I've lived for a life-time!  
Just give me a reason, and I'll come running.  
When I have reasons, I'm going this way.  
I'm pointing my feet in the right direction.  
Give me a reason  
_ Reasons, by John Farnham

  


* * *

  
I used to think that I was the kind of guy that was his own man, that was independant and could do what he wanted with his life. That's what I told myself when I dragged my sorry butt out of bed in the morning (technically, it had actually been the afternoon for all of three minutes), during another testing shift as a rookie officer, and then throughout a long hard night as Nightwing.

If it wasn't so personal, I suppose I'd be amused by the way Life chose to remind me of my humanity, and my need for Home.

I'd already busted up two heroin gangs and was well on my way to wrapping up the third for the night when I got the call on my gauntlets. I'd answered it with a smile even though I was in the process of dishing out some Bludhaven justice to a couple of mooks, expecting it to be Babs with an update on the information I'd requested a couple of hours ago. A blackmarket deal was going down somewhere in my town during tonight, and I wanted to know where and who and why.

It was Babs all right, but she was bearing grave news that put my fine plans for the night -- namely a rendaevou with a certain redhead as soon as I was done for the night -- into dissarray. It didn't take long before the call of a greater duty than that of dishing out headaches to a few goons called me away from the city I'd come to call 'home'.

My Dad needed me.

* * *

I entered the Batcave cautiously, at first not sure what to expect from its human occupants. The story behind it, though, I knew already. Alfred had given me the lowdown, and Oracle had supplied me with the rest. I'm not going to lie and say it wasn't something I'd never expected. I'd just been hoping I'd be around when it finally happened.

I guess that's another one we owe Jim Gordon.

Alfred, of course, knew I was coming before Babs called me. I think he must've heard me leave my apartment using that special sixth sense he has as the official Bat-carer, something I'd wager would've come quite in handy after all those years of trying to keep us safe and relatively in one piece.

I looked around as I approached the main floor where the computer was housed, trying desperately to appear as if I was here for no other reason than to be with Bruce. 'Casual' didn't cut it tho. It never had, and that time was no exception. The gutteral growl from somewhere ahead of me was amply convincing of that:

"Go away."

Ah, yes, the man in black standing woodenly over by that Cray was Batman, the greatest detective the world has ever known and a part-time conversationalist. A genius by many standards, this was the man that had run rings many times over against most of Gotham's criminal population...and he was still working on the minority bunch of nutcases, too many of which had littered both of our lives with their handiwork.

But I hadn't come here to talk to the detective, to the cowl and cape. I came here for someone else. I came here for the man that raised me, the man that made the nightmares disappear, that showed me that families didn't have to be limited to blood ties. I had made the rushed journey here to save the man that had become my father in ways I could've never had guessed when he first saw me all those years ago.

Even if this journey ended up like the other times when we've tried to talk about anything serious, with one or both of us red-faced with anger and years of frustration -- that is, with me angry and him deadly calm -- I figured it would be worth in the end.

I'd much rather die before I let it be anything else. For tonight I was a man with a mission, and I was intent on carrying it out to the end.

I continued strolling futherinside the cave, stamping down the shudders from the memories brought on by some of the more 'exotic' souvenirs housed beloground. As I walked, I allowed myself a small smile as I shook my head at Batman's request and quipped with apparent ease, "Sorry Bats, but no can do. My 'cycle's been impounded for the next hour by Pennyworth Incorporated. I'm afraid you're stuck with me, Bruce."

Silence was the stern reply, but then that was all I really expected. I knew Batman too well to expect anything less.

Well, two could play that game.

I started whistling softly to myself as I strolled around the main floor, trying to look as if I was just investigating to see if he'd added any new 'souvenirs' lately. Actually, the main idea was just to show Bruce and Batman that I was here to stay until whatever it was I came for was sorted out between us. Besides, Tim had mentioned to me the other day over the phone that something had changed recently in the Cave, but that he wasn't sure exactly what it was. Whoever said that 'curiosity killed the cat' might've easily had had me in mind.

The thought that the deliberately slightly off-key whistling would be annoying to the Bat had crossed my mind as well. Maybe if I got him annoyed enough, he'd reveal a crack in his ever-present armour that would be enough for me to exploit. Of course, even Clark will tell you that trying to get Batman angry is like trying to teach a pig to sing -- it bores the pig and it makes you look stupid. I just had to hope that, when it came down to it, all those years of being his partner would finally count for something that truly mattered.

I stopped my forward advance just past an enlarged version of Two-Face's famous coin, close enough to the light from the Crays that no one -- not even Batman -- could deny my presence, but also allowing myself a little shadow in which to hide my own emotions.

Tonight more than ever, I needed that little bit of distance between us.

No more words had been spoken between us, but I told myself that we didn't need them. Years of partnership...of being the best 'son' to him that I could...had taught me to read his body language like I could a well-buried open book. I'd be the first to confess that I'm no expert like Cassandra is, but Bruce is different. Bruce is...well, Bruce is family, like an older brother and father in one tidy package. Of course, sometimes his feelings were buried better than some of Bludhaven's good points, but they were always there if I looked hard enough. The only problem was that sometimes I let my heart take control, and once my emotions flare up I often found myself not having the time to look.

That's probably why we'd always used to argue, but I was determined that that wasn't going to happen tonight. As much as the old man can frustrate me, he's worth more to me than even my sense of pride....worth more than me, period.

Like now, I only had to glance at him and I could tell he was still riding waves of anger and hatred. If I'd really wanted to gamble then I'd be laying long odds that those feelings were directed at a certain insane comedian called The Joker. It was during my second glance at him that I'd picked up on the grief marking his features as well...and the small toy soilder held almost-too tightly in one fist.

Don't ask me how, but I somehow knew right away that it was made of pewter.

In all my years with him, Bruce never played with tin soilders...not using the toy versions, anyway. The thought crossed my mind that maybe he did but in a larger, that maybe I was just a spawn in his designs, a soilder he used in his never-ending crusade against all that's evil. In the next moment, though, I had shoved that thought away. Ideas like that could only get me into a lot trouble, and now wasn't quite the time to have an in-depth conversation with Bruce on methology, nor on our different philosophies when it came to teamwork.

I came for something else entirely.

I glanced again at the toy soilder being crushed in that strong fist, and suddenly made a calculated guess that I vocalised before I could stop myself. "Is that Tommy's soldier?"

Alfred had been very thorough with his information. Most of it, though, I had already known from when the kindly gentleman called to ask me to stage another road accident with the Porsche so that Bruce's skull fracture wouldn't be so suspicious. It wouldn't be the first time that Bruce Waynes 'reckless driving' got the better of him. Its not exactly something I'm proud off, but I can make a mean Porsche accident. I ought to write a book: "Faking an Accident For Dummies".

We went through a lot of Porsches that way.

I watched from the safety of the Crays as the cowl dipped slightly, indicating to me that he was glancing at his balled fists. I wondered if he even knew he was holding the tiny soldier...and how the toy had made it downstairs -- a feat not even my Batman action-figure had accomplished when I was eleven. I found myself holding my breath, and wondering if I had imagined the whisper-quiet acknowledgement, the barely vocalised agreement with the question I had just blurted out.

Yep, Alfred had given me the right briefing all right.

I pressed on with my chosen course, fully aware that I was treading on dangerous ground. "So, it was the Joker who did it?"

I got a grunt for my efforts and that thin mouth of his only tightened further. Soon it was going to disappear entirely, at the rate we were going. "He claimed otherwise."

I didn't ask who the 'he' was, cause I had a pretty good idea who Batman meant. Anyone else deserved - and gained - from Batman the decency to be called by their names, as outlandish as the said names sometimes were. Only one man doesn't have that right...for both of us.

And yes, I really do hate that stupid laughter of his.

I give him a shrug in reply. "So? He always says that."

The sad thing was, it was true. The Joker was the kind of man that would protest his innocence of some dastardly deed even as he'd hold to your head the very same gun he'd used to commit it. It was all a game to that maniac. In fact, I'd be willing to lay odds (to anyone but Roy) that even as Bruce had been bashing his brains in, he'd been giving his nemesis a taste of that manical laugh, that insane crackle that grates on everyone but Harley, the same deriding laugh that tells you he's just playing with you and makes you want to hit him all the more.

I received another grunt for my efforts. In itself it was nothing significant to the unitiated, but for me it was progress. I'd now gone from the simple grunt of _'Leave-now-or-I'll-kill-you'_ to the more common _'I-can-barely-tolerate-you-so-say-what-you-want-and-go'_. This time, however, I decided to take the common variant of the Bat-grunt to mean its alternate option, as Bat-speak for _'I'm-agreeing-with-you-but-I-can't-say-it-or-else-I'll-kill-something'_.

Did I mention he's a part-time conversationalist?

Even so, I was all too aware that we were still getting nowhere fast. Right away, I decided I'd had enough with the mono-syllabilic game we seemed to be playing. Maybe if I went right to the heart of the matter, directly to my reason for coming, maybe then I'd get a response larger than two sylabals and more than four words. "You made the right choice, you know."

Again, silence was the stern reply.

Even though I appreciated all too well the reason why Bruce was being as recalcient as he was, I detested the silence between us. It always seems to mean something bad. It always seemed to mean that PsychoBat was waiting in the wings, waiting to be unleashed upon Gothan's hapless criminal community -- which, coincidently, is also the only time I ever truly pity people like Harvery Dent and Ivy and all the rest of that mad bunch. To my mind, I have very good reasons to hate silence. Even my parents died without a sound, or at least that's how it seems to me. I have the feeling, though, that at the time I had been doing enough screaming for all of us.

I repressed the urge to sigh and wonder if I should leave and try to get more response from a rock. As much as the thought appealed to me at times like this, especially after a hard night as Nightwing, I knew that Dick Grayson had a far better reason for being here than to start that particular argument off.

Already willing to do anything to break that damn silence, I abruptly decided to go straight for the shock factor. "I mean, I might wish you'd killed the little b***d, but I'm glad you didn't."

If anything, the silence only got worse.

For a moment I allowed myself to wonder if Babs would ever believe me if I told her I could sense it when Batman froze, even when he was already motionless. At that point, I'd swear that even the bats nestling in the ceiling cavities so high above us had frozen into immobility when I had gone straight out there and said the unthinkable: 

Me, Nightwing and Dick Grayson, protector of the night and the innocent for all who cross my path...and here I'd just admitted to thinking that the Joker was a waste of airspace.

Actually, to be completely truthful, I'd been thinking about him along those lines for some time now, but I knew it was only because I'd seen the destruction that maniac has wrought on everyone I've come to care about so deeply over my life.

Babs.  
Bruce.  
Alfred.  
Jason then Tim.  
The Gordons

The list just goes on. Every time that nutcase gets out of Arkham, he's nuttier than ever and even more hellbent than before on driving Batman crazy. And every single time, I can't lie with myself and say that the thought doesn't cross my mind that we'd all be better off with him dead. Each time I've confronted the Joker since he shot Barbara, I've had to firmly remind myself that it's not my place to decide who lives and dies, who keeps breathing and who doesn't. I've always known better than most that I should always leave that up to the courts...but sometimes I wondered whether the system really worked, if it was worth the stress we put outselves through when they kept allowing Joker out like clockwork every time we managed to send him back.

Sometimes, being a vigilante just plain sucked.

No offence Bruce.

It was true when I first heard about what he did to Barbara, and it still is. I'm not going to deny it, to lie to myself in the vain hope that one day I'll believe what I know to be false. Even if its only to myself, I have to admit that in those few moments of weakness, when Babs is hurting the most and Bruce is at his most distant, the thought does indeed cross my mind that we'd better off with the Joker dead. That's when I tuck the frustration and pain into the back corner of mind, bottling up what I feel for those times that I'm most likely to get hurt when I'd finally let it out.

Thankfully, most times I get along just fine without those things.

With a mental shrug, I pushed such considerations aside and focused on the task at hand. I decided to worry about myself later, when this was all over and I could curl up in my nice warm bed with the dim hope that I'd exhausted myself enough during the night that I wouldn't dream. But that was for later, when I had the time and the space to let myself fall apart all over again. Right now, though, I had a father figure to save.

The Cave was still silent. I took that as I sign that Batman was waiting for me to continue, probably for me to dig my own grave a little deeper. So, like the loving son I hoped I could be, I obliged:

"Oh, don't worry Bruce. I'm not going to go out there and bash his brains in for you." In what I hope emerged as a casual motion, I stuck my hands in the pockets of the jeans I'd hurriedly changed into so I could travel in something other than my 'night-suit' after I'd got Babs' call. "No way am I going to do that. I learnt my lesson last time."

I couldn't help but wince at that last statement. If _I_ could hear the bitterness in those words, than Batman would probably pick up on it like a Lantern watching out for shades of yellow. After another moment's thought about what I just said, I mentally winced again. Knowing my luck lately, Batman might take that last bit as an insult, as me insinuating that I'm better than him, that I have more self-control than he does.

That's a laugh. If anything, Batman's the one with the finely-tuned control. I wasn't too sure that I could've withstood stood tthe twenty years of unrelenting psychological games and brutal attacks that Bruce has had to deal with, and still emerge with my sanity intact. If I had been subjected to that kind of thing...if the Joker had ever tried to get his hands on Babs or Bruce again while I was still around.... well, I wasn't sure exactly what I would do, but I did know that it wouldn't be pretty. It was either that or go just as crazy as the Joker until someone I cared about brought me to my senses..... Like Batman had done for me when he saved the Joker's life after I beat him to death...and when Charon terrorized both my city and my love.

I grimaced at the images my thoughts were invoking and forced myself to shove it all aside, preferring not to deal with the memories I was still trying so hard to forget. The silence grew between us, but this time I was the one that didn't want to talk.

  
"He killed Tommy."

"..."

I said nothing. What could I say? What could I possibily do in reply to that deep pain intermixed with the aching grief and raging anger that I could sense in his raspy voice and saw in his empty soul? What do you say to soothe something like that?

Unfortunately for me, I had fairly good idea of the answer to those questions. That was the whole reason why I'd dropped everything to come here when the call came through, after all.

But I'm ashamed to admit that I hesitated to reach out to him the way only I could. I knew where he stood, the things he was no doubt feeling, I knew it better than anyone I knew. We were the only two vigilantes I know of that had ever crossed the line we all swore not to cross. The only problem was that I had enough on my plate dealing with what it had done to me...and I just wasn't sure that there would be enough of me left to help Bruce through it as well.

When it happened for me, everyone pretty much just left me to my devices, to let me get over what I'd done myself. Oh, I'm not complaining. I have to admit that it had been exactly what I'd needed. It had given me all the time I'd needed to scrape myself back together before I had to face the world again. In some ways, though, I also couldn't deny that it would've been a lot easier for me if I'd had someone to remind me of what I had been really fighting for: my friends...my family...and Babs.

At the very least, it would've made the nightmares easier to handle.

Once again, I sent a mental thank-you to Jim Gordon for being there for Bruce when I couldn't. At least Jim had managed to bring Bruce to his senses, to stop him from treading down the same path I had allowed myself to travel. I had hoped to be there for Bruce when it happened for him as it did for me, to save him as he'd helped save me, but at least I knew now that I could rest easier at night, knowing that Jim would be there in my stead. It made it that little bit easier to cope with the fear that I'd someday lose Bruce the same way I almost lost myself

I gave myself a mental shake, wondering why my thoughts were wandering so much, and to such macrabe topics. I told myself it was just because this was hitting so close to home, and ordered myself to leave it at that.

"Shot him." Batman continued, his voice rasping as he struggled to get the words out. 

I couldn't help but breathe a sigh of release. Hopefully he hadn't noticed my lapse of attention.

"Shot...right outside...and I didn't... I couldn't...my hands were full....."

He broke off and stared at his hands again, and for the first time I saw why. A myriad of curses flew across my head, most of them directed at myself for not seeing the blood spoiling the Kevlar before, and not a few of them at the purple-clad maniac for making this situation come about in the first place.

My mind instantly flashed back to the last time I'd seen so much blood...but then it had been all over **my** hands, and it was **my** uniform that was soiled with the Joker's blood.

Desperate to divert both of our thoughts from our personal experiences with beating up the Joker and the fine line we trod every night, I said the first thing that came into my head:

"I'm sorry."

At least, I guessed that that had come from me, even though I had no memory of consciously deciding to say that. At a loss to explain it, I did the only thing I could: I allowed my heart to speak instead of my brain, hoping that if I just let myself go maybe I'd start making sense sometime soon. 

"I'm sorry," I repeated softly, looking away to the side for a moment as I heaved a heavy sigh. "I'd hoped I'd be able to spare you from all this."

Once again, I felt the entire Cave freeze at my words.

Undeterred, hoping like anything that what I was saying wasn't as bad as it sounded, I continued speaking, "I guess I've always known this day was coming, but I'd wanted to be there when it did....like you where for me. I'd hoped I could spare you the indecision, the lingering rage and shame you'll never get rid of, just like you'll never forget what you almost did."

Knowing I was taking a huge gamble to show how deeply the experience had affected me, something that would normally get my uniform revoked immediately, I moved another couple of steps inside the circle of light and only stopped when I knew he could see my face. For the first time in a long time, I allowed the torrent of emotions I'd been feeling ever since that day to finally surface.

I'd be lying if I said that their strength didn't take me by surprise.

By now I was rambling, speaking without thinking. All I knew was that Batman seemed to pause and take the time to actually listen to me. I decided that was a good sign and plowed on. "I'd hoped that you'd never have to face the nagging doubts, the worry that you'll do it all again someday...and there'll be no one there to save you. And let's not forget the gnawing fear inside that next time, it'll be because of someone you care about the most."

I gave him a subdued version of a lopsided grin, but I still don't think I managed to hide the pain I still felt. "That one still keeps me up at night," I admitted quietly, running a nervous hand through my hair as I searched for something else to say.

My gaze dropped to the floor, no longer able to meet his own tortured gaze because of the great swell of pity and disappointment I'd expected to find there. I just couldn't afford the break-down that would've given me, even if I almost wished for the release it would've brought with it. I've bottled up everything inside me for so long that sometimes I'm surprised there's anything of me still left that's not...that's not...well, ranting and screaming and crying all at once.

Like I said, I almost wanted that break-down. In fact, the only thing holding me back was what little pride in myself I have left, of not wanting myself to look even more pathetic in Bruce's eyes....that, and the simple fact that I wasn't completely sure I still knew how to cry.

"I guess...I guess I just wanted to apologise...for not being there." I sighed again and shifted on my feet, knowing I was running out of steam. "I just...I wanted to thank-you too, for helping the only way you knew, and...uh..." I swallowed past the sudden lump in my throat, gaze focused quite firmly on my feet, and got the last little bit out in a rush: "...and, well, showingmewhatitmeanstocare."

I turned away hurriedly, feeling my face burn like a hundred-watt lightglobe. It was the first time in my life -- first time that I remember anyway -- that I'd ever done a passingly good impersonation of an upset Flash. Alfred would've had my hide if he'd ever heard me speak like that. My head bowed as I shoved my hands deeper in the pockets of my jeans and started to walk away, never really expecting a reply. It simply wasn't his way. Bruce'd take whatever you gave him, but he'd either tell you how bad it was right away, or he'd take a couple of months to tell you how good you were.

Even though I knew that better than even Tim could appreciate, it still took all I had to not let it get to me when he made no reply. I'd just poured out my heart to him, exposed to him everything I'd tried so damn hard to hide all this time, and all I got in return was the same blank mask he gave his enemies. It hurt me, a lot more than I'd normally care to admit. So I did what I normally do when I'm hurt: I threw it in his face with a grin to hide my feelings and a bad dry quip: "So don't mind me, I'm just going to get the Bat-blinkers to protect me from your blinding wit."

Like I said, it was a quip of bad taste, but I couldn't bring myself to apologise. Instead, I made my way out of the main floor to the stairs up to the Manor proper, swearing to myself that next time Alfred called me I'd ignore him. Of course, such resolves never quite make it past the 'Hello's when its Alfred you're talking to. Still, I was damn well going to try.

My heart bled for him, knowing from personal experience what he was going through....but I couldn't come down and offer to help him with what little I had to offer if I knew it was only going to be ignored. I loved the old man like the Dad he'd tried to be, loved him much more than I would often let on, but there was still only so much of him I could take before i could take no more.

I shook my head in resignation and continued walking, walking out of the Cave and out of his life until he found himself again.

Short of rebuilding my psyche, it was prehaps one of the hardest things I've ever done. The hardest thing of all, though, was mere moments away.

  
  
"Dick."

The old growl -- or The Voice as I've teasingly called it, got me again. Catching myself in the old patterns, I came to stop...but only so I could slam my hand down on the call button for the elevator with more force than was really necessary.

The elevator dinged quietly as the doors opened, revealling the small room that would take me to the safety of the kitchen the moment I stepped inside.

"Please, stop."

I froze, the quiet desperation in that simple statement pinning me to my spot like a ten-pound anchor tied to my heart.

Batman never begged, he commanded. Only Bruce asked, and that wasn't Bruce -- my Bruce -- speaking to me. I wasn't sure what to make of it, but I was fairly sure that it was somehow an improvement on being roundly ignored. At least he was speaking to me.

But that was nothing compared to what came next:

"I'm sorry."

Batman did the undoable: he apologised. It was in a quiet rasp that barely managed to cross the distance between us, but there was no way I could miss it. Within short order, I found myself turning around to face him from where I stood half-in, half-out of the shadows.

Batman's cowl had been pushed back, indicating that his crime-fighting persona was no longer in full control...but he hadn't spoken in Bruce's voice either. I had no idea what I was facing, not sure whether to run back to Bludhaven or to hug him till he almost died of asphyxiaion, and it probably showed.

The open door to the elevator was barely an arm's length away, its promise of a quick escape tantilising and undeniably tempting....but I couldn't...would not...let myself use it. I'd been the one to start this entire conversation, and I knew Alfred would simply be the first in a long line of disappointed people if I didn't finish what I'd begun for once.

Bruce cleared his throat. I had to hide a smile when he nervously ran a hand through his hair -- now I knew where I got that gesture from.

"Look, I'm sorry I ignored you, son. It's just..." He trailed off, unable to continue. This time he was the one looking away shamefully.

"I know," I interrupted smoothly, recalling very clearly the roller-coaster of emotions he was no doubt being subjected to. "It's okay." I lifted my head and met his gaze with mine, trying to impart with only my eyes how deeply I understood. "Some thing's just aren't meant to be spoken."

"You understand."

I wasn't sure whether that was rehetorical or an actual question, so I took the safe route: I answered with a quip, "Of course I do. Been there, done that, sold the comic book rights." I paused, and gave him a searching look. "So, who was it for you?"

He gave me in return this patented Bruce 'The Fop' Wayne look, the one that said he was being confused by the entire world.

Okay, so I admit that it was a strange question to ask. But you don't just beat up the Joker for nothing, as tempting as the nutty clown might make that sometimes -- to coin a phrase, "we're better than that". No, to go all-out on the Joker...or _any_ criminal...there is always a reason -- generally involving a soulmate, in my experience. 

Still, I found myself relaxing at the sight of the look that I normally detested and made me embaressed to call him my "Dad" -- this, at least, I knew how to deal with. "Yeah, you know. Who did you do it for? Who were you thinking of when you did it?"

"Who was it for you?" he asked in return, almost exactly echoing my question to him. He was probably just trying to evade it, but I was willing to give him that. It had taken me quite a few hours to figure out that this was the question I needed to ask myself.

Once I'd asked myself the question, though, it didn't take me long to sort myself out enough to find an answer.

"Babs," I replied simply. What more was there to say? I loved that girl with all my heart, with everything that I was and more. And Bruce knew it....in fact, he'd known a long time before I consciously did. In the end, though, it was that love which drove me far enough to almost lose it completely.

Actually, to be brutally honest, it was Fear that drove me: the fear of always waking up without her beside me; the dread of never seeing her again; the absolute terror that one day I would find her body....murdered at the Joker's hands.

Once I'd realized my motivations, though, it'd made me appreciate that I'd killed the Joker for the same thing I'd been fighting for all my life: Justice. But in that case, I'd pre=empted the Judge And Jury and turned myself into my own personal Executioner. After that, all I'd pretty much had to do was let myself go out there as Nightwing again, but this time being much more vigilant of my own personal limits -- well, that's the simplified version anyway.

The truth is much more complicated.

Bruce nodded once to show he understood my simple answer to a complicated question, the quick half-nod you sometimes have to squint to see. Then all of a sudden he found himself to be very interested in his Kevlar boots.

I couldn't help it: I stared. _Could it be? Could he actually....be embaressed?_ I knew right away that Tim and Babs would never believe me when I told them, just like I knew they'd love the answer I clearly heard after a few minutes of quiet reflection:

"Selina."

This time I struggled not to let out a full grin, and probably failed dismally. Catwoman. Batman -- and Bruce -- had fallen in love with Catwoman.

And I loved it: it's sooo **human** for the Bat to fall in love with a criminal.

It was, I reflected, yet another common bond that we shared. Both of us were willing to give everything, even our souls, if it meant we could save the life of our soulmate.

"I knew it! You love her!" I crowed triumphantly, which was as matter-of-fact as I could manage considering the fact that I was starting to cheer wildy inside. Bruce needed this sooo much that I was almost too happy for him to tease him about it.

Thankfully it was only 'almost', because there was still plenty of blackmailing material in that one-word answer. I was going to have a **lot** of fun exploiting that in the future. For now, though, I toned down the stupid grin that was prabably al over my face and just let the comment pass...for the most part.

He stared at me, various shades of horror flicking over his face. I'd just uttered the deadly L-word...in the cave...in his presence....and all while he still wore the Kevlar. "I...I" He swallowed, hard, and somehow managed to recover his composure faster than I could blink. "I think you've got a city to look after, last I checked. Don't you think you should be getting back?"

The words, while harsh in their nature, couldn't possibly hurt me. Not after I'd glimpsed his eyes, and saw the change in them. The pain was still there, the guilt, the anger, the shame. I knew from personal experience that those kind of things never went away -- you just got used to them after a couple of decades. But for the first time in far too long, I saw a flicker of love in there as well. I wasn't sure if it was for me, or for Selina, but right then I didn't care. All I cared about was that it meant that he'd be able to start moving on soon. A part of me also liked to believe it was his own personal way of telling me he appreciated what I'd been trying to do for him.

Of course, the rest of me knew better.

I found myself struggling not to grin again as I realised something important. There was no way that I could ever miss the fact that, although he hadn't agreed with my assessment of the facts about him and Selina, he certainly hadn't denied it either. The next couple of days were going to be a lot of fun.

"What, to Bludhaven?" I replied, purposely playing dumb as if I didn't know what he'd been asking me.

He just gave me The Look.

This time I really did grin, but I did it to cover the slight unease I felt at having the patented Bat-glare directed at me for the first time since I'd left my teens. "Nah," I replied with studied casualness, "I've already gone over it with a fine tooth comb. For the rest of tonight, I'm looking after Gotham."

His response was simple: Take 'The Look', place it on the face of a muscle-bound hulk like Bane that was a martial artist master like Shiva, but was, like, a storey high and was approaching you with the clear intent of taking your heart while it's still beating and doing all kinds of unmentionable things to it. Now mulitply **that** by about ten, and that's a basic approximation of The Look I received for my kind gesture.

I frowned and crossed my arms, unconsciously drawing myself up to my full height -- and still only coming in at his shoulder. I scowled back at him, and gave him my best you-knowI'm-right glare. "Oh yes I am. I'm just going to go out there and make sure no crazy mooks are doing any funny business, so I'll be back before you know it. Besides, it'll still give you plenty of time to talk to Selina without me around."

I had to smile at the next look he gave me: 'The Fop' times one hundred, intermixed with a little consternation that he'd been caught.

"Oh, come on Bruce. You raised me, and then you expect me to miss the fact that you keep staring at the medical bay, or" I continued with a wolvish grin, "the fact that her cowl is resting on the edge of the computer console?"

He ignored the last bit, or at least I think he did because that was when the glare intensified. "You're. Not. Going. Out. Tonight."

My eyebrow rose, and I quickly pulled a look of quiet disappointment over my face and feigned resignation -- but inside I was gloating that he'd fallen into my little trap. "Okay, okay, I know when I'm beat. So does this mean I have to go and tell Alfred I failed?"

He froze and stared at me with a strange expression on his face for what had to be the third time tonight.

"Didn't I tell you?" I asked in my best innocent voice, with the perfect innocence-personified smile to match. "Alfred ordered me to get you to come upstairs while 'Lady Kyle' was sleeping. I think he wants to feed you and talk to you."

With that, I turned around and headed to the uniform vault, and this time Bruce didn't even try to stop me. I stopped half-way there and looked back over my shoulder. I caught him looking at me with a pensive but strangely wistful expression on his face.

I suppose it was becoming obvious that I'd grown a lot in the last year or so. I'd become a man in my own right, a person that I liked when I looked in the mirror. I knew who I was, what I wanted from my life. I had a direction -- most of them involving the redhead who owned my heart -- and I knew how to get there. Most of all, I was confident in myself, in who I had become and what I could do. Bludhaven, with all of its corruption and unending mire that always tried to drag me down, had somehow been the best thing for me. It was there that I'd made a name for myself as a hero in his own right.

I'd changed all right....and still I found myself missing the carefree Robin I'd once been...the young hero flying though the night with his lady love by his side. Now I flew alone, and my 'lady love' flew only in her dreams. From that one expression, I knew that Bruce missed the days of long ago as well. I saw him struggling with himself, trying hard to keep himself from calling me back from going out on patrol.

Of course. It was the Joker all over again. This time, however, I'd be damned if I was going to cave in again.

My face softened, and the snappy retort I'd planned died without ever making it pass my lips. Instead, I opted for Plan B: I flashed him my 100-watt special, and called out over my shoulder on my way into the vault, "Oh, and don't worry about the Joker, Bruce. I'm the wildcard, remember?"

I immediately decided that I'd tell him in the morning that I never heard his shouted reply because I'd managed to shut the door in time. If I hadn't heard his order to stand down, then I couldn't very well obey it, could I?

If Batman ever ungrounds me, I really had to thank Harold for sound-proofing that door.

By the time I'd changed into the spare uniform I kept in the vault and emerged into the Cave proper, he was gone. The only sign he'd been there was the little PostIt note on the seat of the cycle I favoured when in Gotham. I tucked the note into a compartment in my gauntlet without reading it and promptly ignored because I was too busy escaping the Cave before he changed his mind and locked me down.

I opened the scawled note crouching on top of one of my favorite of all of Gotham's many gargoyles, the one I'd nicknamed "Goliath" over the years. It was to Goliath that I'd poured out my heart -- and plenty of tears -- over the years. Goliath was privileged to hear me rehearsing for the first time I asked Babs out on a date, suffered through my angry punches that did neither of us any good when Bruce fired me, and he was also the one I confessed to whenever Babs and I broke up for a while. It just seemed to me to be a fitting place to open Batman's note to me. I couldn't help but grin widely when I started reading it. I was still smirking while I folded it up and carefully tucked it back into my gauntlet again when I was done, and then as I leapt out into the night to officially begin my early-morning patrol of the city.

_  
Alfred's at Brentwood tonight._

And the reason why I wasn't upset that I'd been "found out"? Batman had obviously written that note before going upstairs. Whoever said you couldn't be in two places at once obviously hadn't been acquainted with my English grandfather. 

  
Yep, the guy in blue-and-black pyjamas grinning like an idiot while doing the ol' Gotham Rooftop Express Scenic Tour, the one known as Nightwing, Bludhaven's latest avenging angel, Alfred's boy, and a part-time Bat-soldier....that's me all right.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

* * *

  
Fin.

.....I think. ;-) So, how did I go?


End file.
